The house had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn't comfort — just reminded you of how much space there was between walls.
Billy lay in bed, the sheets unfamiliar. The ceiling above him too smooth, too polished.
The hum of distant traffic leaked through the half-open window, but it only made the silence sharper.
He turned onto his side, facing the window.
City lights blinked far below — cars moving like fireflies. Nothing like the still, dark nights in the village… where the only sound was the wind through the trees, or the soft crackle of the fire as Artur turned a page of his book.
His eyes burned, but he didn't cry.
He'd done enough of that already — or maybe he hadn't.
Beside the bed, a small shelf held old books, childhood photos, souvenirs from a life that still didn't feel like his.
He reached for one — a small framed photo of him and his sister at the beach. His smile in the photo was wide, free.
